Milk From the Mountain Pt. 1 (First Draft)
*For Nate*
hereadsanaisnin
thatmakesmewarminside
He strums
the taut chords of that glossy instrument
goofy as he,
a lopsided mask
and yet he carries the ridicule
and gives the audience his own Cheshire-Cat smile
brushing away the smooth cascade,
his curtain of raven black hair
crooning and charming
with the charisma of a twenty-first century jester
didhewinkatme
iwishhewould
I peer through the ravine
between a couch and an armchair
splayed on the hard slate of concrete
like a weirdo
afraid
to make eye contact,
waiting to embrace the velvet swirl of his voice.
The flash of his creamy teeth,
I stir at each grin,
the gentle pat on the shoulder,
and a festering horror,
idontreachoutorstrikeupsmalltalk
gripped by the comfort of the mundane
assumesir
theroleofthedroolinggroupie
There stirs,
as he serenades,
the strangest notion.
He sings
as if for the first time, yet spilling forth
a thousand swan songs.
He is the oldest
yet youngest singer here.
fixeduponaspindlystool
surroundedbytablesofshirtssnackscoffeetealacroix
cookiespretzelsoverstuffedcoucheschairsloveseats
scrunchinghimselflookingsovulnerableandliberated
clearcutfromanurbancitycollage
copiedpastedgluedwithelmersonstyrofoam
wishinghewasxeroxedcroppedfashionedinrichsepiatones
If this was his last performance,
how much would I remember?
